DANTE ALIGHIERI

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Second Book of Samuel: Rivingtons, 1898. (‘The Books of the Bible.’)

Christian Evidences: Rivingtons, 1900; 2nd Edn. (4th Impression) 1913. (‘Oxford Church Textbooks.’)

Aspects of the Atonement: Rivingtons, 1904.

Christ and Our Ideals: Rivingtons, 1906.

Dante and his Italy: Methuen, 1907.

¹The Mohammedan Gospel of Barnabas: Clarendon Press, 1907.

The Church of the Apostles: Rivingtons, 1909. (‘The Church Universal.’)

The Book of Books: Edward Arnold, 1910.

Memoir of Charles Edward Wickham: Edward Arnold, 1911.

¹Things Seen in Venice: Seeley, 1913.

¹Venice: A. and C. Black, 1914.

The Gospel according to St. Luke: Methuen, 1922. (Westminster Commentaries.)

¹ In collaboration with Mrs. Lonsdale Ragg.

INAUGURATION OF DANTE’S STATUE, FLORENCE, 1865.

(See pp. [IX.], [19] and [165])

DANTE ALIGHIERI
APOSTLE OF FREEDOM

War-Time and Peace-Time Essays

By
LONSDALE RAGG, B.D.
Christ Church, Oxford
Prebendary of Lincoln, Member of the Società Dantesca Italiana

Author of “Dante and His Italy.”

LONDON
ARTHUR H. STOCKWELL
29 LUDGATE HILL, E.C. 4

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY WHITFELD & NEWMAN, LTD., DEVONPORT

DEDICATED BY PERMISSION
TO THE
DOTTORESSA MARIA MONTESSORI
A TRUE APOSTLE OF FREEDOM
IN THE
EDUCATIONAL SPHERE

Tu m’ hai di servo tratto a libertate.

—Par. xxxi. 85.

CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

Dante, like Shakespere, speaks to every age, and has a word for every crisis in the life of men and nations. Perhaps at no time since he passed into the other world has his spirit been so potent as in these last years, when his Italy has been putting the last touches to the redemption of that territory whose boundaries he sketched in famous phrase.[1]

Scarce were his ashes cold, ere Boccaccio began to expound, from the professorial chair founded by a repentant Florence, the mysteries of his great Poem. Scarcely had Italy awaked from her long sleep of slavery to the foreigner ere she erected in Florence, in the very year in which it became temporary capital of a free nation,[2] a statue of the prophet of Italian liberty and unity.

Some forty-three years later, on the anniversary of the Poet’s death, September 14th, 1908, Ravenna was en fête with a gathering in which the “Unredeemed” Brethren from Pola, Fiume, Trieste, and the Trentino mingled their vows and gifts with those of the City that was his last refuge and the City that bore him and cast him out. All along, and especially in the crises of her fate, his great spirit has brooded over the Italy he loved, the Italy to whom he bequeathed the splendid instrument of a classical language. To-day, perchance he “sees of the travail of his soul, and is satisfied.”

His many-sided genius reveals new splendours when viewed from fresh angles; and the following Essays, which make no claim to special learning or originality, attempt to approach him from different sides, and so to bring out varied aspects of his greatness. But they all, or nearly all, have one point in common: each sets him forth as an Apostle of Liberty.

Freedom political, intellectual, spiritual—all these ideals are wrought into the “Sacred poem to which Heaven and Earth have set their hand,”[3] and that Poem enshrines, as we have endeavoured to shew, principles of liberty in the Educational Sphere,[4] which our present age is apt to hug to itself as its own discovery. The Essays, in their present form, are all coloured by the atmosphere of the world’s great fight for freedom. From some of them, written at the very height of the conflict, a few of the fiercer touches have been removed as “out of tune” in these critical years of would-be reconciliation and reconstruction, when old rancours must perforce be exorcised if we would save civilisation from its post-War perils. If any undue traces of bitterness remain, may Dante shelter them under the ample cloak of his righteous indignation. He, too, spoke hotly—of a Florence and of an Italy whose highest good was ever in his heart.

The problems and ideals of the Great War are still with us in a new shape, and man’s greatest need is individual and corporate “freedom of soul.” If these Essays be recognised as reflecting to any extent Dante’s great mind on such problems and ideals, the Author will be more than satisfied.

Two of these Essays had been published some years ago in the Modern Language Review,[5] and have been slightly retouched: four appeared during the course of the War, in a somewhat briefer form, in the Anglo-Italian Review[6]; while the Prologue, product of the so-called days of Peace, was published in the Guardian of August 19th, 1921. To the Editors and Publishers concerned the writer hereby accords his acknowledgements and thanks; as also to his friend, Professor Cesare Foligno,[7] for a kindly glance at the MS., and for the suggestion that the critical text of 1921 should be cited.[8] Two of the Essays now see the light for the first time.[9] The longer of these, “Dante and Educational Principles,” a paper delivered at University College, London, in the Sexcentenary Series of lectures last year, may perhaps, with the reprinted articles on “Wit and Humour in Dante,” and “Dante and Islam,” claim, in a manner, to break new ground. But all alike are humbly commended to the patient indulgence of the Dante-reading public.

Lonsdale Ragg.

Holy Cross Day, 1921.

DANTE ALIGHIERI

PROLOGUE
DANTE, APOSTLE OF LOVE

But we all with unveiled face, reflecting as a mirror the glory of the Lord, are transformed into the same image, from glory to glory.—2 Cor. iii. 18.

These words form the sequel of to-day’s Epistle[10] in which the temporary reflection of the Shekinah in Moses’s face is contrasted with the permanent and complete illumination of the Spirit. They form the climax of a passage which, full of mystery and splendour, leads us up to those things which eye hath not seen nor ear heard—to that beatific Vision prepared for God’s unfeigned lovers, who shall shine with His own likeness because and when they “see Him as He is.”

A month from to-day—on the day of the Holy Cross—we shall be celebrating the six hundredth “birthday” into the world beyond of the man whose eagle vision pierced, dazzled but unafraid, into the blazing glory of Paradise—Dante, the pilgrim of the world to come. St. Paul’s inspired and inspiring words bring back to mind the swift upward movement of Dante’s Paradiso, where the spirit mounts from sphere to sphere, from glory to glory, impelled and wafted by the sheer force of Love, till at last, in face of the Triune blessedness, it is plunged into an ineffable joy and wonder—ineffable because, as he says, “as it draweth nigh to its ideal, the object of its longing, our intellect sinketh so deep that memory cannot go back upon the track”—

Perchè, appressando sè al suo disire

Nostro intelletto si profonda tanto,

Che dietro la memoria non può ire.[11]

The glory of which we speak—which makes the Paradiso a marvel of dazzling, but, so to speak, graduated splendour—is the glory of Love, Divine and human; and it is of Dante, the Apostle of Love, that I would speak to you to-day. In this sexcentenary year all the civilised world is acclaiming him, and it is well that our Christian Churches should echo thanksgiving to Almighty God for this most Christian poet, and for the magnificent bequest that he left, not only to Italian literature, but to the world. The Pope in his encyclical last spring[12] bore eloquent testimony to Dante’s loyalty to the Christian heritage, and to the power by which, as a teacher of the Faith, “he being dead, yet speaketh.”

He speaks, indeed, with a voice from six hundred years ago, yet not in the remote language of one nurtured in leisure, ease, and comfort, far from the annoyances and disappointments, the worries and anxieties and ugly problems of the rough-and-tumble world we know. On the contrary, the world in which Dante prayed and strove and studied and dreamed and wrote-the world from which comes down to us the serene glory of his Paradise of Love—was astonishingly like our own on its uglier side: a world of religious and political unrest, of clashing interests and ideals, of faction, violence, and cruelty, of individual and corporate predatory self-assertion; a world in which the poet himself, called to “abandon all that man holds most dear”—

Ogni cosa diletta

Più caramente[13]—

wrought out his great work as a nameless wanderer, and died in bitter exile. So we may listen to him as to one who has a genuine message for us.

THE POET OF LOVE

Amid all that has been said and written this year about the author of the Divina Commedia, there is one note that has rarely, if at all, been struck; yet it is surely, in some sense, the keynote of all his singing. Dante is, from the first and to the last, the poet of Love. “I am one,” he says, “who, when Love breathes in me, take note, and that which he dictates within I express”—

I’ mi son un che quando

Amor mi spira, noto, ed a quel modo

Ch’ e’ ditta dentro vo significando.[14]

His first book—the Vita Nuova—testifies to this. It represents a new movement in love-poetry.[15] The songs of the Troubadours had been, in their earlier forms, with all their strange beauty, frankly sensual and immoral; and when, after the religious movement of the Albigensian Crusade, a greater strictness had perforce been introduced, they had lost their first warmth and glow and naturalness. The “sweet new style”—Dolce Stil nuovo[16]—of Dante and his circle combined the two requisites of sincere purity and glowing life. The story of the Vita Nuova is the story of the precocious passion of a boy of nearly ten years old for a little girl of nine. It passes through its phase of refined sensuousness and self-absorption, but it emerges as a pure mystic love that leads ultimately up to the very Throne of God.

In the vision with which the book closes—the vision of his Beatrice after God has called her to Himself—lies the germ of the greatest poem of Christendom; the poem which, just because it sings the story of man’s freewill in contact with God’s redeeming grace, has as its supreme and final theme—Love. We are familiar, no doubt, with the main lines of Dante’s vision of the world beyond—of the three kingdoms as he conceived them, of hell, purgatory, and heaven. But I will ask you to be patient if I attempt to sketch for you something of the great contours of each, that we may see together how, for this love-poet, eternal Love dominates and shapes the universe.

His world beyond is conceived in terms partly belonging to the age in which he lived, with its scholastic theology and its Ptolemaic cosmography, partly in terms of the originality of his own genius. Its details and its hard outlines may be largely obsolete; but its lessons are true and effective. It is because of its essential Christianity that Dante’s poetry is so much alive, is more “modern,” as the Papal Encyclical put it, than much actually contemporary poetry that is conceived in the spirit of paganism. Dante, for his soul’s health—and for the benefit of untold generations—must needs pass through all three kingdoms of the world to come, guided by Virgil, who represents human reason. Descending down and down into the very bowels of the earth he sees the doom of unrepented sin. Then, after a wearying subterranean climb from earth’s centre to the antipodes, he emerges at the foot of the lofty terraced mountain where repentant souls are cleansed and brought back to their primal innocence. At the top of this mountain he finds himself in the earthly paradise, and meets Beatrice, the glorified “lady of his mind,” who now represents at once Revelation and Grace; sees wondrous things, submits to mystic rites, and finally is drawn up side by side with her, by the motive power of Love, from sphere to sphere, up to the Throne of God, where the redeemed worship Him for ever in the form of a mystic white rose. That Love is the motive power in Paradise is obvious. It is the radiant beauty of Beatrice, ever more dazzling as they mount higher, that lifts him up, and the spirits he meets glow one and all with the fire of Divine charity. It is not easy, perhaps, to detect the influence of Love in the dark abyss of the Inferno, or in the stern, long discipline of the Mount of Purgation.

But love is written even across the portal of Hell. “Abandon hope all ye that enter here” we all know as its inscription; but that is but the last line of a nine-line title, and part of that title runs thus—“Divine Power made me, and Highest Wisdom, and Primal Love”—

Fecemi la divina potestate

La somma sapienza e ’l primo amore.[17]

This means, of course, the Blessed Trinity, but the last word about the Blessed Trinity is—Love. Love can be stern, and outraged love can draw down, as it were, by the law of being rather than by such vengeful wrath as we humanly attribute to the Most High, an unimaginable ruin and loss upon the outrager. In the stern, grim, cruel, sometimes grotesquely revolting picture Dante draws of the eternal future sinners can deliberately make for themselves, we see but the fruits of Love offered and rejected—the inevitable outcome of their own choice.

When we enter the second kingdom, and begin to climb the mount which forms the pedestal to Eden, the home of man’s innocency, the breath of Love is stronger and its radiance more clear. It reveals itself in the changing beauty of sky and landscape, in the glories of star-light, dawn and sunset and high noon, in the glad brilliance of wild-flowers, in the melody and harmony of music, but, not least, in the very structure and arrangement of Purgatory. Seven terraces ring the mountain round—one above another—separated by rugged cliffs and sheer precipices which Dante needs all his cragsmanship to overcome. And on each terrace one of the seven deadly sins is purged—Pride, Envy, Anger, Sloth, Avarice, Gluttony, Lust. These are arranged on a scheme which brings into relief a great principle—that all our actions, good or evil, are the fruits of Love—right love or wrong—

Esser convene

Amor sementa in voi d’ogni virute

E d’ ogne operazion che merta pene.[18]

These sins are all results of Love—excessive or defective, or aimed at the wrong object; and the purgatorial discipline is just the action of the educative Love of God upon willing penitents—straightening, developing, governing, and directing the disordered love that has so marred and stunted the beauty of their souls. The discipline and the humiliation are seen for what they are, and the Divine Love that speaks through them finds a ready and prompt response from souls “happy in the fire,” because of the hope of what it can do for them.

Contenti

Nel fuoco, perchè speran di venire

Quando che sia a le beate genti.[19]

Even as Christ ‘for the joy set before Him endured the Cross,’

So they find in their ‘pain’ their ‘solace.’[20]

When we pass into the third kingdom, up and up through sphere after sphere of the heavens, each more radiant with the light of Love, we feel ourselves “reflecting, as a mirror, the glory of the Lord, transformed into the same image from glory to glory.” “One star,” indeed, “differeth from another star in glory.” There is higher and lower in the abode of bliss, in the “many mansions” of the Father’s House. Dante questions one whom he meets in the lower sphere—Piccarda—on earth a playmate of his childhood. “Are you happy? Are you content? Have you no wish to be placed higher still?” Her answer enunciates the basal principle of heaven—“Brother, the quality of our love stilleth our will and maketh us long only for what we have, and giveth us no other thirst.... In His Will is our peace”—

Frate, la nostra volontà quieta

Virtù di carità, che fa volerne

Sol quel ch’ avemo, e d’ altro non ci’asseta.

...

E ’n la sua volontade è nostra pace.[21]

Here Love rules imperially, and the image of God’s Will is stamped in glory on the souls of those who, “with unveiled face,” are granted to feast upon the vision of His glory. Pure in heart, their whole being is full of light. And so, too, the poet, when at last he looked upon God, found his own will and desire moving in perfect harmony with that “Love that moves the sun and the other stars.”

L’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle.[22]

So a great lover of Dante, the late Bishop Boyd-Carpenter, summoned up the teaching of the Paradiso: “Wouldst thou enter into God’s Kingdom, O pilgrim of earth? then love. Wouldst thou share the sweet activities of its citizens? then love. Wouldst thou know Him who rules over them and all? then love. For love opens the Kingdom of Heaven, and love makes the joyousness of its happy services, and none can know the heart of God save through love; for God is love.”[23]

Is it not meet that we should thank God this year for the sublime poet who has drawn for us so splendid a picture of the glory of Love “penetrating the whole universe”; who has shown us in Love the one motive force in the world, the one constructive principle? Was there ever a time when the world needed this teaching more than it does to-day? A true doctrine, if ever there was one. If God is Love, then Love is the only principle of life. “He that abideth in love, abideth in God, and God abideth in him.”[24] Real love—not selfish, sensual passion, not sentimental sweetness, not unwise and poisonous indulgence; but love, wise, strong, straight, and pure, like the love of God; love patient, self-forgetful, self-giving, like the love of Jesus Christ; love illuminating, invigorating, recreative, like that of the Holy Ghost. If we could but “reflect” in life and character the “glory” of the Lord!... There is no glory but love.

We must descend from the ethereal splendour of Dante’s Paradiso into the hard realities of workaday life, even as Peter, John, and James came down from the Mount of Transfiguration to face the shouting, wrangling crowd and the convulsions of the epileptic boy. But though the radiance seems to fade, the glory is still with us, for it is the unfailing Love of Him Who promised to be with us “all the days.” Love, then, accompanied them down from the height, unlocked the prison house of afflicted souls, and solved the problems of sin-stricken humanity. And Love, and Love alone, can do the same to-day.

Let us face our bewildering problems with confidence, knowing that the secret of life is ours. Love, the only constructive principle, the only ultimately victorious power. Our enemies in the late war sounded their own doom when they promulgated a gospel of hate. Hate can never build up, only destroy. Alas! they sowed the seeds of hatred outside the sphere where armies clash, and the devil’s doctrine of class-hatred has been disseminated far and wide. If only the eyes of those concerned might be opened to see the mad futility of hate! There is one force at work in the world that can teach this, that can heal the bleeding wounds of society, untie the knots of the industrial and social and international tangle—the force of Christian Love—yours and mine—a love like that of Him Who came not to be served, but to serve and to give His life as ransom for many; a love that brought Him to die for a world yet steeped in rebellion and sin, and moved Him to lay upon His disciples the injunction “Bless them that curse you.” No merely human organisation for philanthropic succour or for peace; not even a League of Nations, even though, thank God, its power and capacity at last be recognised with a gift of solemn responsibility; nothing but the steady action of that “love of God” which His grace sheds into Christian hearts, leavening and inspiring such movements, such organisations, can hope for final success. But Love, after all, sits enthroned above the water floods, and abideth king for ever. There is no limit to our opportunity for blessing this poor world alike by prayer and by action—blessing our own immediate circle, our civic and Church life, blessing our country, our Empire, and the world’s fellowship of Nations—if but our wills are moving in one motion with His—

L’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle.

Chapter I
DANTE AND THE REDEMPTION OF ITALY

Sol nel tuo verbo è per noi la luce, o Rivelatore,

Sol nel tuo canto è per noi la forza, o Liberatore,

Sol nella tua melodia è la molt’ anni lagrimata pace, o Consolatore.

—D’ Annunzio.

La severa immagine del poeta governa tuttavia i fati delle generazioni d’ Italia.—Mazzini.

Dante stands forth as the Apostle of Freedom in many spheres—that Freedom for which all the world is now longing: freedom for unhindered self-development of men and nations, freedom of spirit—the true atmosphere of all education. The Monarchia, the Epistles, and, most of all, the Divina Commedia—that “mystical epos of Man’s Free Will”—bear witness to the truth of the word which Virgil speaks of him at the foot of the Mount of Purgation—

Libertà va cercando ...

This all-pervading spirit of his teaching might perhaps of itself have been sufficient to make his name an inspiration to the heroes and martyrs who struggled for Italy’s liberation in the nineteenth century; but it may be worth while to draw attention to certain aspects of his work, which give him a more definite and specific claim to be the Father of Free Italy.

The other day I turned up, after many years of neglect, Karl Witte’s Essay on Dante and United Italy. For this suspicious intercourse with “enemy alien literature” I can plead two extenuating circumstances: first, the absorbing nature of the topic at this moment, and secondly that I approached Witte in an English translation. Another point which might count in my favour is the fact that this particular Essay was written before 1870. That certainly lends to it a special interest; and the interest is rather enhanced than otherwise by the circumstance that Witte prefixed a Prefatory note and added a peroration in 1878.

Karl Witte, who was born in 1800 and died in 1883, represents the old vigorous and admirable type of German scholarship which was in very truth “Stupor Mundi”: a blend of genius and conscientious painstaking on the reputation of which the Prussianised Kultur of to-day bases a claim to deference which Europe will more and more hesitate to accord.

How far, for instance, Germany has fallen from her former position as regards Dante Scholarship may be gauged from E. Benvenuti’s slashing article in the Bullettino della Società dantesca italiana of June, 1914, of which a summary appeared in the Times Literary Supplement on March 4th. The article is the first instalment of a review of Dante studies in Germany for the years 1908-1913. It is a record, as the Times reviewer remarks, of “monumental ignorance, inaccuracy, arrogance, bad taste, and sheer stupidity ... hailed with salvoes of approbation by the majority of German critics.”

But Karl Witte is a man of other build than these modern Pan-Germanisers who are patriotic enough to attribute to Dante pure German ancestry, and too patriotic by far to soil their hands with the recent works of sound Italian critics, or their minds with the elements of Italian grammar and idiom.

Karl Witte, on the contrary—though he began life as an Infant Prodigy, matriculating at Leipsic when only nine and a half years old, and reading his Doctor’s thesis before he was fourteen—won recognition in Italy and England as well as in Germany as a real force in Dante scholarship: a great pioneer, who made his mistakes, as all pioneers will, but has won the gratitude of all subsequent Dantists.

In the Essay of which I have spoken, written and delivered as a lecture in 1861, Witte notes the fact and investigates the grounds of the constant association of Dante’s name with the patriotic aspirations of Young Italy. “It is a fact,” he says, “that, during the last half century, a great number of those who aimed at transforming Italy—and not only men of such moderation as Cesare Balbo, Gino Capponi, or Carlo Troya, but also the democratic revolutionaries who would take the world by storm—have hung, and still hang, upon Dante’s Divine Comedy, with passionate enthusiasm. Ugo Foscolo, who preferred poverty and exile to place and honour under the rule of Austria, devoted the last years of his life exclusively to a great work on the poem; and after Foscolo’s death, this new edition of the ‘Prophecy of Italy’s Future,’ as he called the Comedy, was published by no other than Giuseppe Mazzini himself....” If the Italian of the Sixties “were asked whence his countrymen drew their inspiration, he would scarcely hesitate,” says Witte, “to name the greatest poet of his fatherland.” And again, “the fact that in the days of foreign oppression patriots recognised each other by their love of the immortal poet, and greeted one another, as by a secret password, with the inspiring lines of the Divine Poem, is a symbol of the fact that the roots of this temper of mind”—the temper of national “self-reliance and self-renouncing enthusiasm”—“are to be sought in Dante.”

There are three passions, according to Witte, which are (rightly or wrongly) traced back to Dante: (1) a glowing love for Italy, (2) a hatred of the foreign, and above all of the Teuton yoke, and (3) a hatred of the temporal power of the Pope.

In the first case—and this is the point that more immediately concerns us—Witte holds that the contention is justified. “In hope, in sorrow, in reproof, we see Dante filled,” he says, “with the same glowing love for the Fatherland of Italy, a love which he is the first to put into words.”

Before Dante, at any rate, Italy was, in Metternich’s famous phrase, “nothing but a geographical expression.” The Roman poets of the Empire praise her scenery, but their devotion as patriots is to Rome itself. When the Empire broke up, Italy lost her one bond of superficial cohesion, though a shadowy unity emerged now and again under Visigothic and Longobardic domination, and the pressure now of Gothic Arianism, now of Byzantine Iconoclasm, drew Italy’s various groups in self defence closer to Papal Rome.

The phenomenon of an apparently independent and united “Kingdom of Italy” (888-961) after the fall of the House of Charlemagne, is, from this point of view, as illusory as those of Odoacer and Theodoric, effecting little or nothing towards the evolution of a national spirit or a national self-consciousness. Dante is, it would seem, the first to see Italy with a patriot’s eyes, as being, and as having been for countless ages, a fatherland for whom one might sing—

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

She is “that lowlying Italy” on whose behalf the heroes and heroines of the Aeneid shed their blood so freely:

... Quell’ umile Italia....

Per cui morì la vergine Cammilla,

Eurialo, e Turno, e Niso di ferute.

He loves her passionately, torn as she is by faction, her own worst enemy; and he calls on the representative of the Holy Roman Empire to control her madness and to bring her peace.

The close association of Italian aspiration with the name of Dante which Witte observed in 1861, came forcibly under my own notice nearly fifty years later, when I made a pilgrimage to Ravenna to take part in the “Feste dantesche,” on September 13th, 1908. Isidoro del Lungo, perhaps the greatest of Italy’s modern Dantists, was to inaugurate the opening of a special Dante wing in the Ravenna library, and to dedicate a beautiful silver lamp—an expiatory offering from the Commune of Florence—to adorn his tomb.

The occasion was nominally a Dantist celebration; but it might with equal truth have been described as an “Irredentist Orgy.” For one of the great features of the festival was the arrival of a pilgrim-ship, flying the Italian tricolour, from Trieste, bearing some hundreds of Italian-speaking devotees from “Italia Irredenta”—the “unredeemed” cities which remained under Austrian rule when the rest of Italy threw off the yoke of the foreigner—Trieste itself, and Pola, and Fiume. The people of Ravenna and the visitors to the Festival, spurred on by eloquent “posters” exhibited in the streets at the instance of clubs and societies of every description, and by the proclamation of the Municipality itself, to give the “Fratelli irredenti” a fraternal welcome, poured out towards the quay in their thousands, and escorted the pilgrims through the streets with flags flying and bands playing patriotic airs. Conspicuous in the procession were half a dozen Garibaldini, veterans of the War of Liberation, clad in their red shirts; and emotion rose to a high point when the monument was reached which commemorates those who fell in the struggle for a free and united Italy. Laughter, tears, embraces and echoing Evvivas proclaimed the arrival of the cortège at the Municipal Buildings.... It was a scene which one will never forget, as the Italians from across the water flung themselves upon their fellow-disciples of Dante, with the romping and vociferous enthusiasm of children just let out of school!

There were, so far as one could judge, from the floods of printed and of spoken eloquence which marked that day, two prominent thoughts in people’s minds: two prominent points of contact and association between the thought of the Divino Poeta and the aspirations of Italian patriotism. The first of these is more general, the second more specific. In general, Dante is rightly held to be the true Father of the Italian language and literature—that “bond which unites us to our native place.” “Love for our native tongue,” says Witte—and he has in mind a passage of Dante’s Convivio—“is the expression of our love of our native land.” For Dante Italy is—

Il bel paese dove il Si suona.

“The beauteous land where si is uttered”; and to that land the work of his mind and of his pen lent an added beauty, and wove a spell which should draw together all her scattered elements in the enthusiasm of a common speech and a common literary heritage. That is Dante’s first claim to supply the inspiration of a “United Italy.”

The second claim is, as we have said, more specific. It is claimed for him that he described, as it were prophetically, the future boundaries of Italy.

In the ninth Canto of the Inferno (113-114) he includes the whole of the Istrian peninsula in Italy, describing the broad inlet to the east of it—the bay which stretches northward up to Fiume—as “The Quarnaro which shuts in Italy and bathes her boundaries”—

Sì come a Pola presso del Carnaro,

Che Italia chiude e suoi termini bagna....

Again, in his words about the Lago di Garda in the Twentieth Canto of the Inferno (61-63)—

Suso in Italia bella giace un laco

A piè dell’ alpe che serra Lamagna

Sovra Tiralli, ch’ ha nome Benaco.

“Up in fair Italy there lies a lake afoot the Alp that bars out Germany above Tyrol, that bears the name Benaco:” he seems to include not only the whole of Lake Garda but the Trentino too, “barring out Germany” beyond the great watershed.

At Ravenna, in 1908, one might have been led to suppose that these two passages summed up the main interest of the Divina Commedia; but though the utterances are, as a matter of fact incidental, they do point to the fact that the Italy which Dante so passionately loved, and which consciously or unconsciously he did so much to bring into being, was a definite “geographical expression” if it was also something more.

If with Witte we go on to enquire how far Young Italy is justified in fathering upon Dante the passion of “hatred of the foreign, and above all of the Teuton yoke,” the question is at once confused by the fact that in Dante’s day the authority and prestige of that Holy Roman Empire, of which the Poet was so convinced and so enthusiastic an advocate, was associated with a succession of German princes. Teutons of the Swabian House of Hohenstaufen, albeit Italian born, were “the illustrious heroes Frederic the Caesar and his well-begotten Manfred” whom in the De Vulgari Eloquentia (I. xii. 20; Bemp. p. 330) he extols for their nurture, in the Sicilian Court, of the beginnings of Italian vernacular poetry; Teutons the Rudolf and Albert of Hapsburg, to whom the poet of the Divine Comedy looks in vain for the liberation of Italy from its overwhelming ills; Teuton also Henry of Luxemburg, on whom his hopes were finally fixed, the “Alto Arrigo” of the Paradiso—

... Ch’ a drizzare Italia

Verrà in prima ch’ ella sia disposta,

for whom he sees a vacant throne prepared in the White Rose of heaven.[25]

These heroes are not for him, however, Germans, Tedeschi, but Roman Caesars; and had the sceptre of Empire chanced, then, as afterwards, to have been wielded by other hands, we cannot doubt that a non-Teutonic line of monarchs would have drawn from him a like reverence, a like expectation and a like passionate appeal. Similarly, had the House of Swabia been dissociated from the Roman Imperial tradition and played a rôle of overweening and unscrupulous self-aggrandisement like that actually played by Philippe le Bel, Hugh Capet’s words in the fifth Cornice of Purgatory—so well applied by a recent writer in the Times to the Hohenzollern—would have been put into the mouth of an ancestor of the two Frederics, and applied to the House of Hohenstaufen. “I was the root,” he says, “of the evil plant whose shadow blights the whole land of Christendom”—[26]

Io fui radice de la mala pianta,

Che la terra cristiana tutta aduggia.

There is indeed one passage at least where Dante mentions the German people in a non-political context (Inf. xvii. 21), and designates them from the point of view of their national or racial habits. Tedeschi lurchi—“Guzzling Germans”—he calls them. How one’s heart goes out to him, as one recalls memories of sojourns in Swiss hotels! Had poor Dante like experiences or worse to put up with in the days of his wanderings?

Witte, who spontaneously brings forward this word of insight into national character, is delightfully frank about it. “Only in one place,” he says, “does he accuse us of a weakness which we would fain repudiate, but it has been laid to the charge of Germany down even to our own day, on so many hands, that we cannot escape the fear that our forefathers at least must have given grounds for the accusation.” ...

This is a poor note on which to end our study of Witte. Yet it is one on which recent events have thrown a portentous illumination. The tendency which we are combating together, Italians and English, with the haughty spirit of Dante on our side, is one which begins in grossness of bodily appetite, and goes all lengths of cruel and brutalising bestiality.

It is a relief to turn one’s back on this sordid atmosphere and launch out once more into the “better waters”[27] of Italian Patriotism.

I have by me a book which corroborates very strongly—for the sixties at least—Witte’s contention that Young Italy consciously draws her patriotic inspiration from Dante. Some few years ago I picked up in Venice a bound copy of the Giornale del Centenario di Dante Allighieri, of which the first number was published in Florence on February 10th, 1864, and the 48th on May 31st, 1865. There should by rights have been two more numbers, published after an interval, with Index and Frontispiece. Whether these ever appeared in fact, I have not been able to discover. My copy concludes with Number 48, which describes the Festival, to which the year’s publication was planned to lead up—the Feste Dantesche held in Piazza Sta Croce, in May, 1865, the six hundredth anniversary of the Poet’s birth. In that year Florence became the temporary capital of an Italy free and united, but still barred out from Rome by French bayonets; and she signalised the occasion by welcoming back in spirit her exiled Son to the “Bello ovile,” where as a lamb he had slept,[28] when the Re Galantuomo himself unveiled the Poet’s statue in the Piazza. A quaint woodcut of the ceremony adorns the volume.[29]

The successive numbers of this Giornale, with their varied contributions to the study and appreciation of the Poet—contributions drawn from every part of the Peninsula—bear eloquent testimony to the widespread feeling among the Italian patriots of that epoch, that Dante was rightly to be acclaimed Pater Patriae.

The articles are of all sorts, from chronological and etymological notes to formal and discursive interpretations and illustrations of Dante’s writings and his life, and studies of contemporary political and social problems in the light of his dicta. They would probably repay a fuller investigation than the present writer has had opportunity to apply to them. We will take one or two typical utterances to indicate something of the general tone of the contributors.

“Dante was the first among his contemporaries,” says Prof. A. Zoncada,[30] “to rise to the conception of a United Italy”—an Italy united in powers, in purpose, in language, and that in spite of the manifold disuniting influences at work in his day. “Fatto è che Dante primo ne’ suoi tempi seppe levarsi al concetto d’un Italia unita e concorde d’ intenti, di forze, di favella: primo abbraciò nel suo amore tutta intera l’ Italia, senza divario di cielo, di usi, di memorie, di legge, di stato, donde appunto risulta il sentimento di nazionalità.” Dante’s desire for the establishment of an Imperial Court in Italy was, he says, a desire for national and linguistic unity. “Non può essere nazione senza una comune favella, nè comune favella dove nazione non sia. Il perchè voleva Dante stabilito in Italia la sede degli imperatori, unico mezzo, a suo credere, di conseguire l’ una e l’ altra unità, della lingua, cioè, e della nazione.” There may perhaps be a little exaggeration in this statement of the reciprocal relations of nationality and vernacular, but at any rate it fastens on facts. Dante, as we have seen, visualised Italy as one, sighed for her divisions, expostulated with her on her undisciplined factiousness; longed, hoped, and prayed for the speedy advent of a strong unifying force. He also devised for her and bequeathed to her the noble instrument of a classical vernacular; and if it be not strictly true that a nation cannot exist save where there is one national language spoken, yet it is more than half true. Dante doubtless did more in the end for the cause of Italian nationality by his bequest of that splendid vehicle of thought and feeling which the mother-tongue became in his hands, and by his initiation of a glorious literary tradition, than he or any other man could have done by actual utterances, however inspired. The importance of his work for the vernacular is recognised again and again by the epigraphists who in the Giornale del Centenario have taken Dante as their theme. “The mother-tongue supplies a bond of nationality which cannot be broken,” exclaims Prof. Lorenzo Berardi in his epigraph,[31] “and that bond we owe to Dante.”

DANTE ALLIGHIERI
FU IL PADRE IMMORTALE
DI NOSTRA LINGUA
QUESTA
FU IL VINCOLO NAZIONALE
CHE MAI SI RUPPE.

Father of the language, father of the national spirit, prophetic delineator of the national frontiers.[32] So the Festa of 1865 joins hands with that of 1908, wherein the official document drawn up by Commendatore Guido Biagi to accompany the gifts offered at the Poet’s shrine describes the offering communities as—

CONCORDI IN LUI
CHE NEL VERSO IMMORTALE
SEGNAVA I TERMINI AUSPICATI
DELLA PATRIA ITALIANA

But these festas are no longer an ideal and a dream; All-Saint’s-tide, 1918, has sounded a note of triumph which resounds, it may be, in the world whither Dante is gone. Since the words above were penned, there has rung out at once the knell of the justly hated Hapsburg autocracy, and the joy-bells of Italia Redenta!

The Piave, associated by Dante[33] with the grim thought of a humbled and degenerate Italy, harried by the outrageous violence of Eccelino da Romano and his minions; associated for us all to-day with nobler memories, as the line of defence where for long months and weary, patriots shed their blood like water to ward off from Italy horrors of brutality before which even Eccelino’s record—a byword in the Middle Age—reads like a little ill-timed horseplay: the Piave and the land behind it—

... Quella parte de la terra....

Italica che siede tra Rialto

E le fontane di Brenta e di Piava,

have witnessed wonderful events. That famous river of which D’Annunzio exclaims:[34] “It runs beside the walls and past the doors and through the streets of all the cities of Italy; runs past the threshold of all our dwellings, of all our churches, of all our hospitals. It safeguards from the destroyer all our altars and all our hearths”; it has witnessed a great victorious onrush that has swamped the very memory of Caporetto, just a year, exactly, after that day of disaster.

And the dream of the Ravenna pilgrims of 1908 has come true. Trento and Trieste, “staked out,” as it were, by Dante’s verse as Italian, proclaimed Italian by race and speech and aspiration, are at last Italian in fact.

Evviva Italia Redenta!

Postscript.—September, 1921, takes us back once more to Ravenna. Once more the short and narrow street that faces the “little cupola more neat than solemn,” is packed with an enthusiastic crowd. Once more the soul of Italy is concentrated in that exiguous space, offering votive gifts at the shrine. But this time the men of the Trentino and of the Dalmatian cities come as “Redeemed Brothers,” fused in the general life of the larger Italy. The Army gives a Wreath of bronze and silver, the Communes of Italy a Bell, the city of Rome a bronze Door.

The sexcentenary of Dante’s birth in 1865 marked a great stage in the liberation and unification of Italy; the sexcentenary of his death, a still greater.

May the Poet’s best dreams come true, as interpreted by the Prophet Mazzini, and Dante’s native land find at last that “peace” which she has been “seeking from world to world”—find it in the fulfilment of her God-given mission to the nations.

II
DANTE AND POLITICAL LIBERTY

Libertà va cercando, ch’ è sì cara

Come sa chi per lei vita rifiuta.

—Purg. i. 71, 72.

These words, it will be remembered, are addressed by Virgil, at the foot of the mountain of Purgatory, to Cato of Utica. Virgil is speaking of Dante, and of his mystical journey through the eternal world. The object of that quest, he says, is Liberty—that liberty which will make him master of himself morally and spiritually, when Virgil himself, at the summit of the Mountain, ere he takes his leave, shall crown him “King and bishop of his own mind and soul.”[35]

... Te sopra te corono e mitrio.

These moving lines, as D’Ovidio reminds us,[36] have drawn tears from many a patriot of the last century; they may well form for us a starting-point for the consideration of Dante’s attitude towards Political Liberty. True, it is ultimately spiritual liberty, liberty of soul, that the Poet “goes seeking” in his pilgrimage, even as it is slavery of soul from which he announces in Paradise[37] that Beatrice has delivered him. “Thou hast drawn me,” he says, “out of slavery into freedom ... thou has given health to my soul”—

Tu m’ hai di servo tratto a libertate

...

... l’ anima mia ... fatt’ hai sana....

But the conditions of spiritual and of bodily freedom are very close to one another—as many a languishing prisoner of war can testify—interlaced and interwoven if not identical.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage.

It is possible, thank God, for the human spirit to rise superior to the most degrading conditions which inhuman brutality or fiendish hatred can impose. Yet an atmosphere of justice and peace is the right and normal environment for the soul’s free growth; and steady pressure of tyranny and calculated injustice will all but infallibly blunt and stunt the moral growth of its victims, as is witnessed by the universally blighting effect of Turkish rule. Moreover, unless the received political interpretation of the three Beasts of the Dark Wood[38] is wholly unwarranted, Professor D’Ovidio is right in claiming[39] that, in a true if subsidiary sense, Dante’s supernatural journey was “a refuge and a remedy” from the troubles in which the Poet found himself immersed in the tangled thicket[40] of an “enslaved Italy,” full of tyrants, and of that tyrannous faction-spirit which is the worst enemy of Freedom.[41]

The Italy of his day, like the Florence which cast him out, is a stranger to that Liberty which only Peace can give—a peace for which, on Dante’s horizon, no other hope appeared than that of a common subjection to the “Roman Emperor,” the divinely appointed guardian of justice among men.[42] Peace is, indeed, so closely linked with freedom that Dante, in one place,[43] speaks of it as the goal of his mystic quest.

Quella pace, che ...

Di mondo in mondo cercar mi si face.

whereas in the First Canto, Virgil has described that goal as liberty—

Libertà va cercando....

We may pause, then, on the context of these lines, wherein Dante’s quest of liberty is associated with Cato’s suicide. For the difficulty and obscurity of the situation which they raise will plunge us at once into the heart of Dante’s Political Theory.

The opening Canto of the Purgatorio shews us Cato of Utica, the austere republican who killed himself rather than bow to the rising dominance of Julius Caesar,[44] accorded a place of honour as Overseer of the souls in Ante-Purgatory. His loving wife Marcia is in Limbo; his fellow-republicans Brutus and Cassius are, with Judas Iscariot, in the lowest depths of Hell. There is, moreover, a special place in Hell[45] appointed for suicides, in a gruesome wood made fouler by the Harpies. Yet here is Cato honoured, and, further, held up by Virgil as pattern of the patriot who gives life for liberty! It has been a traditional crux to interpreters of the Divine Comedy, to explain and justify Cato’s position. To understand the fulness of the difficulty, and at the same time familiarise ourselves with Dante’s theory of the ideal government of the world, we shall need to turn to the treatise in which he holds up for the general admiration of mankind that Empire which to Cato was more hateful than death itself.

Next to the Divina Commedia, the De Monarchia—the “Monarchia” as it is more neatly styled in Italy—is, in many ways, Dante’s most important work. It lacks the charm as well as the literary importance of the Vita Nuova, and the autobiographical interest of that and the Convivio, but in it Dante develops his political theory, and by it—through Marsiglio da Padova and his Defensor Pacis[46]—he influences all subsequent generations.

The “Monarchy” which he expounds therein is not Autocracy as such; it is the traditional suzerainty of the Holy Roman Empire, in which, in spite of its actual failure in history, he sees an ideal centre of unity for Christian civilisation, an ideal Court of Appeal for international quarrels, a divinely ordained curb for personal and national greed and self-assertion, and so an unique guarantee of peace for the world.

The Monarchia is comprised in three Books. In the First, Dante sets himself to prove that the office of “Monarch” is necessary to the well-being of the world, developing his theory of “Monarchy” as such. In the Second, which is a long panegyric of the Roman Power, conceived as one and continuous from the days of Aeneas son of Anchises, he points to Rome as a providential instrument in God’s hand for the governing of the world and the well-being of mankind.[47] He establishes to his own satisfaction the thesis that the Holy Roman Empire, and it alone, provides the “Monarchy” he is seeking. In the Third he argues that, notwithstanding all that has been said and done by Popes, who (since Gregory VII—and notably in the person of the Poet’s contemporary, Boniface VIII)—claimed authority over all earthly potentates, the Secular Authority is, in its own sphere, not derived from, or subject to the Spiritual, but is independent; that the “Roman Prince” derives his authority and his inalienable responsibility direct from God Himself.

This last is the most original part of Dante’s treatise, and that of most general importance. For it saps the false temporal pretensions of the Papacy, the rottenness of which Dante was clever enough to discern long before the famous “Donation of Constantine” had been proved a forgery. But this subject need not detain us now. Our interest will be focussed mainly on the theme of the First Book; in a lesser degree on that of the Second, and we shall consider them both in the light of the Divina Commedia.

Dante’s reverence for the Roman Empire dates probably from his first study of the Aeneid, and is bound up with his passionate devotion to Virgil,[48] whom he addresses in the opening Canto of the Divina Commedia[49]

O degli altri poeti onore e lume

Vagliami il lungo studio e ’l grande amore

Che m’ ha fatto cercar lo tuo volume!

For him, as we have said, the Roman Power is continuous—from Aeneas, through Julius Caesar, and through Charlemagne to his own day. In the Second Book of the Monarchia he sets forth first the nobility of its origin, then the attestation of its divine character by “miracles”; he substantiates the claim of the Roman People to rule by the evidence of their “public spirit” and rightness of aim, and their unique faculty for governing; by their success against all competitors for world-empire—the prize sought so keenly by Cyrus, Xerxes, Alexander and the rest was attained by Rome alone. Finally, he adduces Christ Himself as a witness. Did He not choose to be born and to die for the world’s salvation under the authority of the Roman Empire?

In the Divine Comedy the theme of Rome’s glory receives an equally enthusiastic and a more poetic treatment. Its echoes ring all through the great poem, they become clamant and compelling in the Sixth Canto of the Paradiso, where, from the mouth of Justinian, in the Heaven of the world’s Workers, flows the story of the majestic flight of that “Uccel di Dio,” the Roman Eagle, through the centuries from Aeneas to Charlemagne.[50]

But the atmosphere of serene satisfaction which pervades the Monarchia is not maintained here. The opening Paean of triumph gives place to a more mournful note when the great Lawgiver turns to denounce the factions of later times: “the Guelphs striving to Frenchify Italy, the Ghibellines to Germanise it.”[51] Bitterly he assails the unworthy partisans of the Empire. The Eagle stands for Justice; let them practise their intrigues under some other standard[52]—

Faccian li Ghibellin, faccian lor arte

Sott’altro segno....

Here practice comes to blows with theory. The Roman “Monarchy” was, in Dante’s days, a failure. This failure was partly due to negligence of individual occupants of the throne of the Caesars, like Rudolf and Albert of Hapsburg,[53] partly to the usurping pretensions of the Papacy,[54] partly, again, to the turbulent, anarchic, and self-seeking spirit of cities and states.[55]

It was Dante’s misfortune to be born into a world seething with political faction, and into an Italy and a Florence in which the fever of faction was at its hottest.[56] The two most potent influences in Christendom—the Papacy and the Holy Roman Empire—were at feud; and half the people of Italy (largely, if the truth must be told, to justify their existing group-enmities) sided with the Papacy, and called themselves “Guelfs,” half with the Empire, and called themselves “Ghibellines.” It is a mark of Dante’s greatness that, unlike most of his contemporaries, he was able to hold the balance true; to realise the immense value of each Authority, the Spiritual and the Temporal, if rightly wielded; to discern the God-given responsibility of each, and their mutual independence.

Exiled himself from Florence by political faction, victim of the ruthless partisan spirit which ruled in his native city, he felt keenly the need of a supreme controlling power, a generally accepted and incorruptible Court of Appeal; and he looked forward to the descent into Italy of the Emperor Henry VII in 1311 as to the return of a Golden Age[57]—of a Peace long wept for, and still delayed:[58]

Della molt’ anni lagrimata pace.

Many think that the Monarchia was written to celebrate this advent of one to whom he is not afraid to address the sacred words: “Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata mundi!”[59]

Dante’s hopes in Henry VII were doomed to disappointment. The disappointment did not shake his faith in the Holy Roman Empire as a panacea for all the temporal ills of a Christendom distracted by individual and national self-seeking and aggression.

If we turn to the First Book of the Monarchia, wherein Dante develops his Political Theory, we shall find that, at first reading, the actual person of the Emperor seems essential; just as, at first sight, he seems to rule out Democracy, together with Oligarchy and Tyranny, as a “perverted form of Government.”[60] Here we must remember Dante’s environment. His personal experience of the chances of freedom and justice in his native city would give him an instinctive bias against a non-monarchial form of government. Whether the system by which Florence ruled itself in the opening years of the fourteenth century is technically to be styled Democracy or Oligarchy, or a compound of the two, it was certainly, in practice, for Dante, a Hydra-headed Tyranny of the worst description. Further, it may be well to realise that personal authority was the only type of Suzerainty, the only form in which a paramount and impartial Sway, or a world-wide Court of Appeal had appeared on his mental horizon.

It has been said of Mazzini’s Republicanism that it did not rule out “Imperialism” in the sense familiar to British minds, of “The White’s Man’s Burden.” He approved of the British Raj in India, and pictured his own free Italy of the future as possibly destined to spread the blessings of her own historic civilisation by a similar rule over pupil-peoples. May it be claimed in like manner for Dante, whose writings so profoundly inspired Mazzini and his fellow patriots of the Risorgimento, that though he is in a sense a thorough-going Imperialist, yet his Imperialism is, at bottom, not inconsistent with a more modern aspiration for a “World made safe for Democracy,” and kept safe by a “League of Nations”?

Dante is Imperialist; but if we enquire of him what is the raison-d’-être of Empire, he will answer: “It is the temporal well-being of mankind.” This “well-being” consists in the fulfilment of the purpose of man’s earthly life; the true and unobstructed self-expression of that personal freedom of choice—that prerogative of self-determination—which God has given to man as His divinest gift: unique and universal endowment of His intelligent creatures—that “Liberty of Will” which is so nobly hymned by Beatrice in the Paradiso (v. 19-24)—

Lo maggior don che Dio per sua larghezza

Fesse creando, ed a la sua bontate

Più conformato, e quel ch’ e’ più apprezza,

Fu de la volontà la libertate,

Di che le creature intelligenti,

E tutte e sole, fuoro e son dotate.

In his Political Theory, as in his Mystic Pilgrimage, Dante is the Apostle of Liberty.

Libertà va cercando, ch ’è si cara,

Come sa chi per lei vita rifiuta.

This noble couplet, which has moved the hearts of countless heroes and martyrs of the Risorgimento, even as our English Poetess was moved in ’48 at the sound of a child’s voice singing beneath her window “O bella Libertà, O bella ...!”—this couplet bears with it, as we have seen, a reference which has puzzled all the commentators, because it links with Dante’s quest of spiritual liberty the deed of Cato of Utica: the suicide by which that intransigent republican escaped submission to the founder of the Empire. And not only is Cato given an honourable place at the foot of the Mountain of Purgatory, and assured that, at the Great Day, his self-slain body shall be glorified[61]; but in the Monarchia,[62] Dante actually quotes with approval Cicero’s dictum in the De Officiis that for Cato “it was more fitting to die than to look upon the face of a tyrant!” There may be other reasons for this strange discrepancy in Dante’s scheme; but one is clear. Liberty ranks so high in the Poet’s mind that it over-rides all other considerations: its typical votary may win most extraordinary and exceptional treatment!

Well, an essential condition of this all-precious Liberty, this full and unobstructed self-expression and self-determination among nations, is Peace.

Such a peace must needs embrace harmony within the individual life, in the home circle, in smaller local and municipal units, and, finally, harmony between the various nations of Christendom, over all of which, ideally, the mantle of the one Empire would be spread. Such a Christendom, and such an Empire, for Dante, ideally embraces the whole of mankind. This all-embracing character is, in fact, essential to it; and it is important for our purpose to note that this complete world-wide embrace (the antidote to personal ambition) never has been, and is never likely to be, achieved by any personal sovereignty.

In this teaching the Monarchic Principle is, on the surface at least, more than an abstraction. It is everywhere personified, though it claims to exclude, as far as may be, the characteristically individual element of greed and self-assertion.[63] To Dante it is self-evident that peace in any of the concentric rings of human life—family, municipal, national, international—can only be secured by the recognised dominance of a single person in each circle.[64] In illustration of this principle he quotes (from Aristotle) Homer’s verse about the Cyclops[65]: “Each of them lays down the law for his own children and wives”; but he ignores the anarchic conclusion of the sentence ... “and they take no heed of each other.”[66] Nor does he follow Aristotle[67] in characterising this as “an uncivilised form of government”; otherwise, he might have adduced the Cyclops rather as an abuse of the Monarchic Principle. The fact is, that in each of the concentric circles the principle is only too liable to abuse; and Dante knows it, else he would not have strewn the realms of his Inferno with the tormented shades of those who have been guilty of such abuse—have been brutal tyrants in the home, in the city, on the throne. If we would gauge the depth of indignation which such abuse can rouse in Dante, we have only to turn to Hugh Capet’s speech in Purg. xx. 40-96, where the denunciation of the savagely self-assertive Royal House of France, with its infamous record of oppression, fraud, treachery, murder, and sacrilege, might be applied directly, with scarce a change of phrase, to the Hohenzollerns of to-day.

No doubt the personal guidance—even forceful guidance—may be necessary in early stages, as we have found it necessary among the child-races of Africa. Even the Hohenzollern style of rule, in our day so monstrous an anachronism, might have had its justification in far-back ages. It would perhaps compare favourably with its true antecedents, the Nineveh and Babylon of Old Testament times. “The Mailed Fist” may have its place, ere men have learnt—

... how to fill a breach

With olive branches—how to quench a lie

With truth, and smite a foe upon the cheek

With Christ’s most conquering kiss....

...

... We needed Caesars to assist

Man’s justice, and Napoleons to explain

God’s counsel, when a point was nearly missed

Until our generations should attain

Christ’s stature nearer....

—E. B. Browning: “Casa Guidi Windows.”

But now we are beginning to realise that it is a thing—

Worth a great nation’s finding, to prove weak

The “glorious arms” of military kings.

Ultimately, it is a Supreme Tribunal that Dante yearns for, albeit he conceives that Tribunal as personified—incarnate in the “Roman Prince”.[68] It is impartiality,[69] above all, that Dante looks for; an impartiality to be guaranteed by that absence of ambition which an undisputed, world-wide supremacy might carry with it, “leaving nothing to be desired.” The authority that is free from taint of greed and self-interest, and so from the temptation to use human lives as means for its own ends, will most effectually display that “charity or love which gives vigour to justice.” For “Charity, scorning all other things, seeks God and man, and, consequently, the good of man.”

Surely such impartiality and such human consideration might be looked for in a representative tribunal at least as hopefully as in a fallible individual like that Henry VII, on whom, in life, he built such soaring hopes,[70] and for whom, beyond death, he prepared so high a seat in Heaven?[71]

That it is a Tribunal that Dante is really seeking, is clear from the Tenth chapter of the First Book of the Monarchia. And it may be permissible to adduce in this connection a note on that chapter by an eminent Dante scholar (to whom not a few of the thoughts in this Essay are indirectly due), written at least ten years before the outbreak of the World-War.

“Nothing,” says Mr. Wicksteed, (ad loc. p. 149), “could better help the student to distinguish between the substance and the form of the De Monarchia, or to free himself from slavery to words, than reflection upon this chapter. He will see that Dante’s ‘imperialism’ does not mean the supremacy of one nation over others, but the existence of a supreme law that can hold all national passions in check; so that the development of international law and the establishment of arbitration are its nearest modern equivalents; and the main difficulty is found in the want of any power of compulsion by which the nations can be made to refer their quarrels to the supreme tribunal and accept its awards, whether it sits at Rome or at the Hague.”[72]

What shape, we may ask, would Dante’s theory of the Temporal and Spiritual Authority have assumed, had it seen the light in the Twentieth Century instead of the Fourteenth? How would he shape it now?... How, perchance, does he shape it now if he looks down from “an eternal place” upon this “little plot” of an earth which has so often been the cockpit of international ferocity—

L’ aiuola che ci fa tanto feroci.[73]

He would see a world that has for generations clean forgotten that Holy Roman Empire which loomed so large in his day, and is just giving the coup-de-grace to two unholy Empires that were playing a rôle exactly the opposite of that of Dante’s ideal Roman Prince, whose chief care is to see that “in areola ista mortalium libere cum pace vivatur;”[74] a world in which a bastard Roman Empire, seeking not peace and freedom for the nations, but living for war, has striven for four long years with all its might to crush the rest of the world under an iron heel.

He would see a world in which the Papacy is no longer paramount in Western Christendom; in which its spiritual claims are largely challenged, and its temporal pretensions reduced to the shadow of a sham. A world in which industrialism and the fruits of applied science have transfigured at once the material and the social landscape. With the passing of German Military Autocracy, the last traces of Feudalism are like to disappear.... A world in which the development of national self-consciousness, in its infancy during his lifetime, has increased and multiplied. He would see a world, in short, both inwardly and outwardly utterly different from that for which he legislated in the Monarchia, save for the two permanent factors—the identity of human nature, and the continuity of Divine guidance, by Him “qui est omnium spiritualium et temporalium gubernator” (loc. cit.)

Would he not acclaim the passion for justice and freedom which has inspired the nations of the Entente to pile up their enormous sacrifices in a five years’ struggle? Had he compared the conduct of each side—had he compared merely their treatment of prisoners of war—could he have doubted for a moment which side exhibited the princely spirit of Charity “which gives vigour to justice:” caritas maxime justitiam vigorabit.[75]

Would he not see in the actions and aims of Italy—“Redeemed Italy”—and her victorious allies, a surer hope for the stable peace of mankind than ever his “Romanus Princeps” could have furnished? Would he not have found his own aspirations for a just and impartial and supra-national Tribunal embodied in that arbitrament which the “League of Nations” carries with it?

Would he not turn to individual nations (in the spirit of Mon. i. 5) and say: “See to it that this principle of freedom and justice rules throughout; that the spirit which looks ‘only to God and the good of man’[76] inspires all your life-circles: the Home, the City, the Province, the entire Nation. See to it that the brotherly, unselfish, co-operating spirit has sway not only between the members of the various classes and groups and interests of which your nation is composed, but that it dominates also the relations of class to class and group to group? What can better guarantee internal peace in a composite, democratic community, than that each of the elements of which it is composed shall be dominated by a single spirit—the spirit of free fellowship, which is the surest antidote[77] to the anti-social poison of greed and self-assertion?”

Would he not also see that the maintenance of such a spirit demands also a Spiritual Authority, one and forceful?

The “Sun and Moon” of Spiritual and Temporal Authority of the Monarchia,[78] which in the Purgatorio have become “two Suns,” to light men on the earthly and the heavenly path, he would find still essential in a “World made safe for Democracy.” In 1300, he found the Spiritual Sun usurping the powers of the Temporal, and so putting them out of gear.[79] The Roman Prelate had annexed the Roman Prince’s sword and united it incongruously with his own pastoral staff—

Soleva Roma, che ’l buon mondo feo

Due soli aver, che l’ una e l’ altra strada

Facean vedere, e del mondo e di Deo:

L’ un l’ altro ha spento; ed è giunta la spada

Col pasturale, e l’ un con l’ altro insieme

Per viva forza mal convien che vada;

Pero che, giunti, l’ un l’ altro non teme.

To-day he might rather see the Spiritual Sun eclipsed by the Temporal. Religious sanctions will be needed to inspire and elevate the democratic and multi-personal successor of the “Roman Prince” as the guardian of the world’s Justice and Freedom. God Himself is the “Living Justice,”[80] and He alone can wean human hearts from envy and that to which envy leads—

... Addolcisce la viva giustizia

In noi l’ affetto sì che non si puote

Torcer già mai ad alcuna nequizia.

And “Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is Liberty.”[81] For Freedom’s sake and Justice’s sake, Dante would demand some independence still, of the Sword and the Pastoral Staff. He would demand (to modify Cavour’s famous phrase) “a free Church in a league of free States”—a unified Church to match the union of Peoples; a democratic Church to inspire a democratic World, no longer an Ecclesiastical Autocracy, but a Federation (shall we say?) of free National Churches, parallel to the Temporal Authority of the future—the United States of the World.

A democratic world, indeed, yet an “Empire” too, after all; gladly submissive to the perfect sway, over Church and State alike, of the King of Kings[82]—

... Quello imperador che là su regna:

A God whose influence, though more resplendently manifest in some spheres than in others, interpenetrates the whole of His universe, as in the magnificent opening words of the Paradiso—

La gloria di colui che tutto move

Per l’ universo penetra, e risplende

In una parte più, e meno altrove;

A human world which reflects the peace of that wider creation which “works like a giant and sleeps like a picture”—a peace built on the only sure foundation, namely, the harmonious co-operation of mighty, God-given forces, working together under the hand of God Himself.[83]

With his last breath, as it were, the great Poet reminds us, to look up to the Eternal Love that sways the constellations ... and the hearts of men[84]—

L’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle.